“Well, it’s certainly not moving now.”
Connaught smiles. “Step forward please, Major.”
Both men step forward in unison. The fog undulates. The colonel takes another step forward and a finger of smoke creeps from the mass. Littleton splays a hand against the glass. “It senses movement?” The gas vibrates, irritated swirls rise and twist.
Connaught grabs his hand and pulls it back. “I wouldn’t do that. We know next to nothing about this organism, or how it travels.”
“There’s a glass barrier-”
“That may not be a barrier, Colonel. We just don’t know enough about it yet.”
Littleton takes a step back, and wipes his hand on his trouser leg. “What do you know about it then?” Staring at the twisting tendrils he peers forward. “Are those rats in there?”
“Yes.”
“They’re dead?”
“Yes, they are.”
“It killed them?”
“That’s what we’re presuming, but until we can do an autopsy-”
“An autopsy on a rat?”
“Yes … Colonel, let me show you what we’ve discovered; it’s much easier than explaining it.”
Connaught reaches for the smaller glass case set to the side, and links it to the larger one. Inside two rats scratch at the glass. Littleton watches in silence as the rats are forced through to the larger case. As they enter, the gas begins to vibrate and swirl, twisting as the rats move beneath it.
“There were rats at the crash site,” Connaught adds as they watch the drama behind the glass. “I was so busy getting the samples that it didn’t register that there were so many, and the mist hid much of the ground, but as we pulled away, their numbers were noticeable, not only the living ones, but the dead too.”
The mist undulates, and a tendril of smoky gas rises to the roof of the glass cage then twists and descends, a definite finger of fog that strokes across the largest rat’s nose and whiskers. It twitches, sneezing as the gas seeps into its nostrils.
“These rats are from the same litter, and neither have shown previous signs of aggression.”
Littleton doesn’t respond, his attention captivated by the scene inside the case. The smaller rat scurries to the corner, lifts its paws to the glass and sniffs. The larger rat, tendril of mist curling around its head, shivers. Another tendril snakes its way towards the smaller rat as the other draws close. As it begins to wrap around the smaller rat, the larger rodent pounces. With a single leap, jaws open, it sinks long incisors into the neck of its brother.
Startled, Littleton jerks back. “What the hell!”
Connaught watches, making notes on the clipboard. He checks the stopwatch as the smaller rat squeals, bucks, then grows still.
“Exactly thirty seconds from first inhalation to aggression. That’s far quicker than we’ve seen in human subjects.”
“You’ve tried this on humans?”
Connaught stares at Littleton. “No! I’m talking about the video footage from the impact sites we’ve received. Humans, presumably because of their substantially larger anatomy, take a longer time to be affected—though not by much.”
The smaller rat lies still as the larger one retrieves its incisors. Connaught records its movements. It scurries to the other end of the cage then returns, grabs the body by the scruff of the neck, and drags it back across to the other side.
Littleton takes a step back into the room, away from the case, lips thinned with revulsion. “This gas, doctor, is it airborne?”
“I can’t say for sure. It doesn’t appear to be compatible with our atmosphere.”
“What does that mean?”
“I mean that it doesn’t appear to disperse. I observed it at the site. It hung along the ground until agitated by movement, as it did here, but it didn’t rise to any great height. Its density will perhaps prevent it from becoming airborne. It does seem to have limited movement, but I think its main way of ‘getting around’ is by hitch-hiking. It’s a parasite.”
“And the rats were the hosts?”
“Yes, as are we.”
“So … the parasite lives in the gas and spreads from human to human.”
“I think that’s a plausible hypothesis, Colonel.”
Littleton pales and turns his attention back to the scurrying rat as it drags the body around the cage. “What the hell is it doing?”
“I believe that the parasite has damaged the primary motor cortex of the brain, but until we can carry out an autop-”
“You mentioned in your report that you had witnessed some of the infected displaying a similar behaviour.”
“Yes. As we were leaving the site, I noticed a small group of men dragging or carrying bodies, just as the rat is doing now.”
“Dead?”
“I’m presuming so.”
“People the infected had killed?”
“It’s hard to be certain, but I’m assuming that is what happened.”
Littleton is quiet for a moment, intent on watching the movement in the case. He finally turns to Connaught with a sharp intake of breath. “The rat is running around without aim because it is trapped, whereas your report mentioned that the infected dragged the bodies in the same direction.”
“Yes, that did seem to be the case.”
“Then, doctor, we need to find out exactly where they were going.”
Twenty-Four
As they turn the last corner and leave the last row of terraced housing behind, the grey slabs of the pedestrianised street come into view. A wide road is flanked on the left by a squat building with huge glass panes emblazoned with ‘CLOSING DOWN. FINAL REDUCTIONS’, and on the right by a wall of red bricks, their lower half shining with anti-vandal paint. Beneath the oily-looking surface are the scrubbed remnants of names and the mostly obscured ‘Ali Asif is a peedo’.
The central street is relatively quiet, not the heaving mass of shoppers Nate would have expected to have to weave his way through as a kid. The precinct’s days as the centre of everyone’s Saturday morning activities are long gone, though recent investment, and a reduction in the greedy local Council’s business rates, prompted by the rapid decline and abandonment by some of the bigger department stores in favour of large retail parks, has sparked some new life into the place.
Along the road is a sight that was absent from his childhood; tables and chairs set outside a café. The thought of sitting there makes him shiver; England was just too bloody cold for sitting outside to drink coffee, even if it was called a latte or choca-mocha-frappuccino these days. Further along is the large brown and white sign of a coffee shop he recognises, one with tables inside, and warm food. Better, it’s within the one remaining department store that also has an outdoor shop. His belly grumbles as they near the café, and he mentally scans the sandwich-laden shelves and heated serving dishes he remembers are beside the café’s till.
The café is busier than he’d anticipated, several elderly couples sit sipping at coffee and biting at chocolate brownies with greying or synthetically white teeth, faces lined and dour, conversation dried up. The men stare beyond the windows, thinning hair as flat as their conversation, the women’s eyes as dull as their men’s hair. Nate shudders as a moment of clarity flashes in his mind; this is the future he has been spared—this could have been him and Melanie thirty years from now. A sudden wave of euphoria hits him and, for the first time, he feels free of the despair that has lain on him like a press since he’d caught her out, shagging his best friend doggy-style, moaning like a whore in their own bed. He’d pulled them apart, punched him, stopped himself punching her, and burned their marital bedsheets in a furious, jealous, and heartbroken rage in the back garden, throwing his wedding ring into the blaze in a final act of rejection. The grief had followed.
A broad smile spreads across his face as he scans the other customers: a pair of young mothers chat, each with a conical glass mug of cream-topped brown liquid, children dandled on legging-clad knees, their tiny mouth
s smeared with the pale and moistened crumbs of over-sized, obesity-inducing, duck-shaped shortbread. A teenage couple sit taking selfies: she pouts through shining lips, her make-up HD ready for the camera’s filter, oblivious to its drag-queen reality; he pulled to her side, her arm draped over his shoulder, talon-like pink nails digging into his jacket, eyes wide with faux excitement. When did people get so fucking vapid?
Nate makes his way to the counter with Ellie. Josh and Justin ‘hold’ a table with enough seats for them all at the window as one of the older couples departs. Nate orders drinks and paninis with a side-serving of chips and salad for them all, then sits, still edgy, disbelieving at the calm atmosphere, the lack of chaos and gut-wrenching fear.
The large grey slabs of the walkway between the towering shops are as drab as the blocky grey 1960s buildings that line this section of the street, but he doesn’t let their brutalist and now shabby aesthetic pull him down. “So,” he says with an air of brightness that isn’t manufactured. “We’ll eat, then decide what to do.”
“I thought we were going shopping—to kit ourselves out to fight the zombies.”
He laughs. Justin’s remark seems ridiculous, the previous night, and this morning, just a horrible nightmare. “There’s no such thing as zombies, Justin, but yes, until we can be sure that there are no more of these drugged-up lunatics on the run, we should make sure we’ve got a few essential items.” He mentally scans the outdoor shop as the waitress sets down their food, wondering if it sells hunting knives and crossbows, or just tents, anoraks, sleeping bags, and tin mugs. Probably just tin mugs. Where can you get weaponry these days? Amazon? They won’t deliver in time, unless … Prime? Don’t be stupid! “We’ll check out Milton’s—they should have a few bits that we might need.”
“We need to get some food for later too.”
“Sure, though I’ve got food back at the house.” He takes a bite of his panini and calculates the remaining money in his very seriously depleted personal savings account. The hot cheese burns his lips. He grabs the dangling threads of melted cheese. It droops and drops to his plate. “Hell!”
Justin giggles.
“Hot?”
He nods, wishing he’d bought water instead of the steaming coffee. Outside, a wisp of white wafts across the window. He forks a sliced tomato, its chilled surface cooling to his lips. A woman walks past, taller than most, slim with long legs and knee-high boots, probably early thirties, and keeping herself in shape, blonde too, without much makeup – just the type Nate likes. He watches her pass, an ache spreading where it has lain dormant for the past six months, and notices the trailing smoke that blows from her nose. It wafts to the women walking in the opposite direction, snaking a trail about their jowls and seeping up nostrils. They turn and push through the department store’s double doors, passing the café and disappearing among the stacked shelves of makeup and perfume. His gaze broken, he turns back to his plate with disappointment – smokers, even vapers, were a definite no, no.
Josh takes a handful of chips then stands, mutters something about making a phone call, and moves to a now vacant table, turning his back to the group. Nate watches his son; a flush has appeared on the boy’s pale cheeks, and a spark of excitement has replaced the anxiety in his eyes.
“He’s calling Tina,” Justin says pushing another forkful of chips into his mouth.
Tina? Josh hasn’t told him about any Tina! “Oh, and what do you know about Tina?”
Justin mumbles through his mouthful. Nate picks up something about ‘safe’ and ‘girlfriend’.
“She’s just a friend, Nate. Josh is worried about her that’s all. He said that her parents are often out and she’s probably on her own.”
“He’s told you?”
“Yes.” She stalls as their eyes meet and he quickly looks across to Josh, sure that the hurt he feels is raw in his eyes. “You know what it’s like, Nate. You wouldn’t have told your dad about any girl you fancied at his age.”
Justin sniggers.
She’s right. “True. I wouldn’t, nor my mum.”
“He’s just a typical teenager. Probably try and sneak her upstairs when you’re-”
“Bloody hell, Katy! He’s just a kid.”
“He’s fifteen, Nate. Don’t tell me you didn’t try that one.”
He quiets. She’s right, again. When did the boy grow up? Whilst you were being so fucking self-absorbed, Nate. “Yes, but he’s only fifteen, Katy. Still just a kid!”
The girl with the painted face reaches for her mobile as it vibrates, clicks, then frowns at the screen. “What does this mean?” She reads the text, “A mandatory curfew has been imposed with immediate effect.”
“What?” The boy at her side reaches for her hand to steady the screen. “Must be a joke.”
Josh’s phone vibrates, then Katy’s, and within the next seconds a variety of ringtones fill the café. Voices rise as the messages are read, and Nate realises that for each of them the message is the same.
“ATTENTION: A mandatory 48-hour curfew has been imposed with immediate effect. WARNING: RISK OF DEATH: All citizens must remain inside. Anyone breaking the curfew does so at their own risk and may be subject to prosecution. This curfew is for your own safety. There is no need to panic.”
“No need to panic?” He checks the other diners, some are standing to leave, panic already written across now ashen faces, others stare incredulously at the screens and then at the other customers, checking for the common response. Oblivious, the couple at the adjacent table continue to eat their cakes.
The man, in his fifties from the look of his thinning hair and weary sagging around his eyes, takes another mouthful of an enormous slice of carrot cake. “Hmm! This cake is very moist, Moira.”
“Stephen!” Her voice is hushed as she leans across the table whilst scanning the room. “Don’t say that word … like that.”
“Which word, Moira?” A wicked gleam shines in his eyes. “Do you mean … moist?”
She purses her lips and stares back into innocently widened eyes. “Yes,” she hisses.
Stephen’s moustache moves rhythmically as he chews. “Why, my dear, whatever do you mean?”
“You know I hate that word.”
“How can you possibly hate the word moist?” He rounds the word lasciviously in his mouth, obviously revelling in his mischief. She purses her lips, squirms in her seat. “You know exactly what you’re doing.” Her cheeks have stained to pink. She breaks her gaze from his and looks out through the glass. Her brow creases, and eyes narrow. He mouths ‘moist’ at her, unseen, then takes another forkful of the frosted carrot cake.
“What are those people doing, Stephen?”
He drops the remaining portion of cake into his mouth. “How the bally hell would I know, Moira!” Crumbs cling to his lips. He follows her gaze and his mouth opens as he stares at the scene outside, cake, now slick with saliva, instantly forgotten.
Josh returns to the table.
“Did you get hold of her?”
His face drains of colour and he jerks, knocking the edge of the table. He stares down at Nate then back to the window.
“Steady on, lad. She only asked about your girlfriend.”
“It’s her!”
“Tina?”
“No. Her. The woman from the tower block!”
Nate stands, pushing his chair back, knocking it to the floor. It clatters as the others stand. “No! It can’t be. We got away.” His skin creeps. A trail of smoke twirls from the edge of the window.
“She’s there, Dad. Look!” Josh jabs a finger to the left of the window where the smoke rises. It lingers, twirls and twists its fingers into the hair of a man pushing at an elderly lady in a wheelchair. He rubs furiously at his nose as the white twist creeps over the wiry hair of his stubby ginger moustache, and disappears up into his nostrils. Nate pushes past Justin, shunting him closer to the table, and peers past the edge of the window. It is the woman! She looks older than he remembers, kind of sh
rivelled, as though her skin no longer fits. The stretch-marks across her belly, in plain sight through the split in her bloodstained t-shirt, are now wrinkled, her face thinner and more lined. Overall, she seems slimmer, but it is, undeniably, the same bloodied, and battle-scarred woman.
Katy gasps. “She’s stalked us!”
“She’s stalking me!”
“She’s a lunatic. We should call the police!”
Josh reaches for his phone and dials, passes it to Nate as it rings. Nate listens as he stares at the woman. At least she isn’t moving. Just staring, and being stared at by shoppers. The white smoke trails from her mouth, her skin has the unhealthy pallor of someone riddled with liver disease. She holds neither cigarette nor vape. Where the hell is the smoke coming from? The phone continues to ring, then cuts off. “What the hell?” He stares down at the mobile, ‘Call Ended’ is written on its screen. “You dialled 999, Josh?”
“Yes! Can’t you get through?”
Nate ignores his question as he dials again; 9 … 9 … 9. The phone connects. Rings. He listens. Again, it cuts off.
“How can the emergency line not answer?” Dread tightens its fingers across his chest, the pain real. If they’re too busy, Nate: inundated, overwhelmed, unable to respond!
The woman shuffles forward, walks to the centre of the window, and places both hands onto the glass. As they stare, she steps forwards and licks, a long pink tongue leaving a trail of brown saliva in its wake, whilst her red eyes staring and insane, weep yellow matter.
“Gross!” The girl with pink talons and painted-on eyebrows turns her phone to the window and walks forward, holding its camera to the woman.
The flabby monster sways across the glass, her tongue dancing in its own saliva. She presses a hand to her crotch and rubs.
“Eeeww!” The painted girl squeals.
“Disgusting!” An elderly woman stands up with a snap and hammers on the window. “You stop it now!” Her husband chortles as the woman at the window digs a hand inside her grubby waistband and slides a hand between her legs. The knuckle of her index fingers jabs at the fabric. Katy covers Justin’s eyes and forces him to face the café’s counter.
Mortal Skies: A Post Apocalyptic Sci Fi Horror Novel Page 13